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Is too much
of a bad question
to ask
a thinking-man,
who mostly
spends most
of the next moment
somewhere… in the past;
for the past,
in experiencing,
was… reality, in
reliving is unreality
of dreams…
while a future..
a lone eventuality – in all of now,
is inscrutable myth!
for hardly
do dreams
entail a future.

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I’m glad that one old man
remembers to take his medicine.
He tends
to speak very little
these days
and the few words that surface,
are sometimes, a solemn source
of sad comfort.
The other day, we happened
to discover
a mutual guilt…
in possibilities of
a few things
we might have done different… to thus,
have deferred the routes
to two abrupt terminals.. of a kindred loss – in
our divergent histories, that
since then… cannot matter.

But it is
at times ..unnerving
to know that one is the last
of a particular kind of blood,
and has failed irrevocably..! to protect those
who had always protected him.

Therefore,
it remains
to gaze upon reflection
and search for traces
of faces bygone, where one might
imagine reflexively.. for
the dwindling remainder
of the cherished few… as much as for the self:
how the face, the lowered eyelids,
low breathing, tired arms,
restive legs,
the twitching.. in all,
would be rendered
– when devoid
of the animus of consciousness – of the spark of life..
then
left alone for days, to rot..!!

and
in these forsaken hours
of insomnious nightmare..
can one glimpse.. the ruthless truth
of the nature and eventuality of this raw flesh..
can see right through seductive illusions
of presence… and mistakes
of love and hope.

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I wish,
most foolishly, that
it eludes you..
that you somehow escape..
and it never
comes to pass… that reality,
in impersonal manifestation,
leaves
the brightest
of all dreams
upturned, without warning,
as a figment, an
illusion without possibility; except.. in
red moments of desperate madness. And
it remains too low
to crave
the obliviousness of beasts,
and despicable of our nature
that time
is meant to submerge
even that One brightest
of dreams.

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At times,
I find myself running
away from all the things
that remind me of you…
or more,
the ubiquity
of what is now the absence
of your shelter.

It is,
as if to attempt
escaping a labyrinth
of chasms.. left
inside this body,
and struggle
to slither off
this build of hollowed bone.

Can’t run for long..
and there is no place
to go to..
to save the remains
of the mind,
where respite is lack
of consciousness:
to slip into,
past your living pictures
that wander
about this head..
and
tear away!
with a distinct.. echo
of your distant… searching.. call.

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It doesn’t feel
as if Time
has already begun
to eat away,
to dull and coldly
anaesthetize the pangs
of the immitigable finality
of this vacuum.

It’s just
that this bitch of a life!
doesn’t let you
stand still…
and there was too much
raw sewage! pointless shit – to look into
today, as there was
the
last
time
you called
to ask if
I was coming
that day,
and I said
that I’d come
that weekend, and
asked if
you were feeling
alright, if
you were feeling
tired…
to which,
after a long
pause,
you replied
that you felt
very… tired…
and I asked
of you,
for the
last
time… to rest… and
you
listened.

And again…
there was too much
of all this today, as there
may be
for who knows
how many hollow tomorrows…
to let me
get lost
in visions
of
‘you’.

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Like alcohol,
it doesn’t dull
that ..sinking
feeling one gets
on disinterring
an indispensable
image..
that no longer
exists
in places
other than the heart.

At least cheap
whisky, in a while,
fogs the senses
and knocks you cold… while
..a metamorphosis of despairing thoughts to disquiet expression..
in contrariety,
keeps you waking
and alert
as in excision without anesthetics,
at times… with words
to stopple
too much bleeding.

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And when I
still had… the chance,
you hardly asked.. for what
I knew
I should’ve been more… for you;
and I didn’t
take enough
care…
of you.. and I wasn’t
the only one. So,
now I keep reminding
not just myself, but
also the few
who should have,
and I might just be killing
us all.

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Were words not overused
as they are,
perhaps
there would be more dignity
in ‘grief’,
that is to say,
the vicissitudes of turbulence
in the ravaged valley of the ‘heart’,
that serves
as contemptible metaphor
for the entirety of one’s substance
susceptible to ‘despair’,
the kind
that makes you despise
the glass half-full
and envy
the sound of ‘laughter’
made in blissful ignorance
of the barbarity
of cold ‘time’,
which is,
as Dad used to say,
just “a unit used to measure the changes of nature”.

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It’s hard
to cloud the closure..
and remember just
the fullness of good
in what
you had become.

The irony in mind,
remains the spectacle.. the sound
of your resounding laughter!
in innocence
of impending inevitability.

This failure
isn’t
reversible, as are
so many
benumbing things, in wading
these shallows of unimportance.
Yet..
dreams arrive
in waking, to transpire
as madness
of impossible abstractions
on concealed sources
and conspiring possibilities..?

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It should
begin in twos:
your worlds – for you, upon
a time, until one
is gone.. and
it doesn’t hurt at all..!
as long
as you’ve forgotten
that there’s no longer
one completely familiar
place… you can always… at
any of all times, come ‘home’
to – to complete safety…
and then
it all collapses
and impales you sharper and deeper..!
each time – like drowning again
and again,
in colder
and colder currents
of blinding, pitch-black snow.

Thereafter,
the fullness of the world:
the last
of your first, in the one
remaining other… would,
on another unexceptional day,
disappear..

and
you’d find
you’re old overnight
and may have already
become one – yourself.

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These days
are strange as the nights,
where I can’t help revisiting
the absurdity.. of your defeat..

And
it seems, then,
a rather good idea
to visit some
snow – an evening
with a small handgun,
have it loaded, listen
for the ‘click’ – as
the hammer’s cocked; then
hold it backwards,
point the barrel
right down between
the eyes – straight up
the middle, and gently
slip a calm thumb
before the easeful trigger,
lean delectably into
the freezing metal muzzle..
grin.. pull..

BANG!!!

.. ..

.

And it’s all fixed..
it all… gets better…
it all
goes back the way
it was always
meant
to be:

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She said
I spoke to you.. while
ailing and delirious, and I remember
what I was saying,
but can’t recall hearing
the sound of your voice, nor feeling
an air of your presence – at all, at
the time, except
for a part
of an unfinished sentence, on
an obscure page of a much-unused diary,
where you wrote
that the discovery
of your life
had been
that you were wrong…

and I wanted
to finish the sentence
in writing: you
were loved… you are remembered…

yet all my demons held me there
as I kept murmuring in hopeless delirium..
as if to answer
an expected question:
“yes I am a part of you”
“yes I am a part of you”
“yes I am a part of you”
“yes I am a part of you”

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It came
late last night:
a vision
of perhaps… the safest of places
from those early, freer years that
then dried up
and hardened as burnt-brown earth..
to something
long-suspended, poorly preserved and
somehow… I felt it
observe me intently,
in
the saddest of ways…
before crumbling altogether
into the dirt.

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You knew
that I looked somewhat
like you, and
lately I find you
in so many ways
I sound
and act
and where
we come from, they might
just say that
a part of you
must’ve latched on to me
the last time
I held
your.. fingers
and I’d kill for it to be True..!! but
I recollect… that
I was
this way
for as long as I can
remember, and
just didn’t realize
it
sooner… to
see
how a lot of me died
with you.

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I thought
to myself yesterday
that just like it was
before, you probably wouldn’t
have agreed to listen
to my many trifling tales
of weakness
and petty failures,
just like you never shared
your harder stories
with me, unlike
you did with her, my
mother, who once
used to be
your friend… and
once divulged to me,
one of your secrets. And I saw
that you neither spoke,
nor sought to listen because
you were
too ashamed to reveal
your scars and
too proud to believe that
I might have a few
of my own…

Perhaps…
you didn’t want us
to become as alike
as we
turned out to be.

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The idea
of Paradise, as
a place
where the ideal
is reality… seems
something we’d like
to imagine
as going somewhere
that was dreamed or envisioned,
or once, really was.. immaculate…

and some place
we usually know,
can no longer be
as perfect, on arrival
there.

The last time
we saw each other,
we spoke
of his childhood
in a boarding school,
where mornings came before
the sun, at times
before the break of dawn
and then,
there was routine for some
chosen, in clearing dust
from prayer halls, and watering
the stretches of flowers that
lined the grounds, before
the other children
were up.

I assumed
it must have been tiring
to rise so early, each day,
and then do that much work,
to which,
to my surprise,
he said
that he used to enjoy it,
and explained
that the feel
of fresh, open air…
that bathed the body,
and the gleam
of that dim, first light… that
illumined the skies
would allow
his young mind
to be lively! and
free…

It’s difficult
at times, to tell
dreams from reality..
but I know
I asked if he
would like to revisit
those faraway gardens
once again… one
early morning, with me
this time.

Or was I..
just waiting
for the next time
I’d see him..
and only dreamed
that I had already
asked..?

Someone told me
that life
is supposed to be
a procession…
of
unbearable passing..
and I claimed that it would’ve
been better
to never have
existed, but once
one does…
there’s too much
to try
to hold near, to simply
go away…
until we bid adieu
to Heaven… that hides
in the impossibility
of complete return
to the elusive fulfillment
of some mysterious places
on this uncaring earth.